aid! she stopp'd to see
What youth her husband was to be.

Rebecca heard the midnight chime
Ring out the yawning peal of time,
When shrouded Paul, unlucky knave!
Rose like a spectre from the grave;
And cried, "Fair maiden, come with me.
For I your bridegroom am to be."

Rebecca turn'd her head aside,
Sent forth a hideous shriek, and died!
While Paul confess'd himself, in vain,
Rebecca never spoke again!
Ah! little, hapless maid! did she
Think Death her bridegroom was to be.

Rebecca! may thy story long
Instruct the giddy and the young.
Fright not, fond youths! the timid fair;
And you too, gentle maids! beware;
Nor seek by lawless arts to see
What youths your husbands are to be.

LINES

TO AN AURICULA, BELONGING TO ----.

Thou rear'st thy beauteous head, sweet flow'r
Gemm'd by the soft and vernal show'r;
Its drops still round thee shine:
The florist views thee with delight;
And, if so precious in _his_ sight,
Oh! what art thou in _mine_?

For she, who nurs'd thy drooping form
When Winter pour'd her snowy storm,
Has oft consol'd me too;
For me a fost'ring tear has shed,--
She has reviv'd my drooping head,
And bade me bloom anew.

When adverse Fortune bade us part,
And grief depress'd my aching heart,
Like yon reviving ray,
She from behind the cloud would move,
And with a stolen look of love
Would melt my cares away.

Sweet flow'r! supremely dear to me,
Thy lovely mistress blooms in thee,
For, tho' the garden's pride,
In beauty's grace and tint array'd,
Thou seem'st to court the secret shade,
Thy modest form to hide.

Oh! crown'd with many a roseate year,
Bless'd may she be who plac'd thee here,
Until the tear of love
Shall tremble in the eye to find
Her spirit, spotless and refin'd,
Borne to the realms above!

And oft for thee, sweet child of spring!
The Muse shall touch her tend'rest string;
And, as thou rear'st thine head,
She shall invoke the softest air,
Or ask the chilling storm to spare,
And bless thy humble bed.

LINES

TO LADY WARREN,

_On the Departure of Sir John Borlase Warren, K.B_.

TO TAKE THE COMMAND OF A SQUADRON.

Oh! why does sorrow shade thy face,
Where mind and beauty vie with grace?
Say, dost thou for thy hero weep,
Who gallantly, upon the deep,
Is gone to tell the madd'ning foe,
Tho' vict'ry laid our Nelson low,
We still have chiefs as greatly brave,
Proudly triumphant on the wave?
Dear to thy Country s